BY MICHAEL KEARNS

Wet Hair in Central Park

“We're going to see Hair,” I announce to the vernal young woman behind the front desk at our hotel.

“You mean Hairspray?” she politely questions.

“No, I mean the show that's playing outdoors in Central Park — about a tribe of hippies in the late '60s. Takes place during the Vietnam war.”

She looks puzzled. My friend Zo chimes in.

“We stood in line this morning for more than three hours to get our tickets,” she says.

Now the young woman is looking at us with a combination of confusion and compassion.

“Did you say the show is outside?” she asks. “Isn't it supposed to rain?”

There may be a cloud or two lurking in the skies over Manhattan but we're not going to let that rain on our parade, especially after the time we've already invested whiling away those precious hours to get our hot hands on free tickets, enduring the histrionics of a strolling musician donned entirely in hot pink, attempting to play “Let The Sunshine In” on the saxophone.

Subtitled “The American Tribal Love Rock Musical,” Hair begins with the cast magically appearing on the grassy stage from all directions, as if they've been hiding in the nooks and crannies of the park. “This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius,” the ensemble sings, encapsulating the show's overarching spiritual themes.

Harmony and understanding
Sympathy and trust abounding
No more falsehoods or derisions
Golden living dreams of visions

Astrologically speaking, the Age of Aquarius was presumed to take place at the end of the 20th century, ushering in an era of changing social values, emanating from a sacred place of love and light. The Bush Family was not part of this prediction.

Hair premiered on Broadway in April of 1968: a theatrical reaction to a world that was spinning out of balance in a tornado of chaos. I was about to graduate from high school, terrified that I might be drafted. The volatile year also provided a platform for the nascent women's liberation movement when feminists protested the live taping of the annual Miss America Pageant, and rebellious queers were gearing up for the Stonewall Riots. It was a year marked by inexplicable tragedy: the murders of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr.

All of Hair's causes are woven into the world we currently live in: war, racism, sexual freedom, ecology, and, above all else, peace. The show is a phenomenon that carries the weight of a shifting social, political, and sexual movement that serves as an X-ray of America's conscience.

One simply cannot experience the unadulterated joy of the musical's liberating leitmotifs without thinking of Iraq, Mrs. Clinton, Barack, same-sex marriage, and global warming. (The “flower power” of the ’60s was not without a “green” tinge; hippies respected the sensuality of Mother Nature.)

The performers are a scrumptious bunch, and audience members find ourselves within licking distance of their sweaty bodies as they cavort in the aisles of the theater.

I got my mouth
I got my teeth
I got my tongue
I got my chin
I got my neck
I got my tits
I got my heart
I got my soul

About halfway through the second act, when leaves start to rustle and it begins to drizzle, the change of weather seems perfectly attuned to the onstage transitions. The actors, faces streaked with raindrops, become beatific as Hair devotees whoop and holler. Then it begins to really rain, and we hear a disembodied god-like voice say, “Actors, please clear the stage.”

After 10 minutes or so, the rain subsides as multi-colored umbrellas are folded up and the show is about to go on (again).

Then it hits.

Shakespearean bolts of lightening, Wagnerian thunder, and a torrential downpour proves, if there is any question, that Hair is a force of nature—a hurricane of humanity. Forfeiting the final 10 minutes of the show is eloquently balanced by being in-the-moment-at peace, as one—in spite of the storm's hysteria.

When my friend Zo and I return to the hotel, and ask for extra towels to mop up with, the young lady behind the desk regards at us as if we are victims of a natural disaster.

“What was the name of that play you saw?” she asks.

“Hair,” I say, “Wet Hair.”